Turn, Turn, Turn...

Rest in peace, Dad.  I'll miss you.

xo, Joan

Sigh....

I've mentioned in previous posts that I'm an enormous fan of the big band era, and the music of the 40's.  Give me Bing, Frank, and Rosemary on my car radio and I'm good for HOURS!

My XM radio's 40's station is where I recently discovered, and fell in love with, the voice of  Margaret Whiting. The recordings of her performing Moonlight in Vermont, A Tree in the Meadow, and my personal favorite, You Do, are so clear and pretty, they've actually reduced me to tears.

So I went on YouTube today to try and find one of those recordings to share with you, and was disappointed when I found none.  I instead came upon THIS lovely piece, The Lies of Handsome Men, and I knew immediately it's what I wanted to post today.

Like Rosemary Clooney, Margaret performed well into her later years, when her voice was much older and harsher.  This is a recording from those "twilight years," so you won't get to hear the clear, sweet tones of her earlier days.  But I think it's lovely, in it's own way.  And the slide show is just, well, DELICIOUS!  Swoon with me for a minute, won't you?.......

Priceless

My sister, Jen, and I had a heated debate recently.  It was the day after basketball star, Lebron James, Ohio native and player for the Cleveland Cavaliers, broke the collective hearts of an entire city when he announced he would be "taking his talents to South Beach," and leaving to play for the Miami Heat.  The televisions stations in Cleveland spent the next several hours mourning their exiting hero's decision, interviewing fans that quickly progressed from being heartbroken to really, really angry.

Despite growing up under the same roof as our father, the athlete, coach, basketball referee and ultimate Cleveland sports fan, Jen never shared the same sports enthusiasm as the rest of us.  I don't believe she ever really "got" the whole thing.  She declared that day that the worship this country bestows on it's spoiled, overpaid athletes is despicable, and we should all be ashamed for wasting our time pining over their childish antics.

Truth be told, I was never a fan of Mr. James.  He definitely, in my opinion, fits the description of the overpaid, spoiled athlete with multiple character flaws.  He was born and raised in nearby Akron, Ohio, and played for the Cavaliers for seven seasons, never achieving a championship, often because he appeared to simply quit when they reached the playoffs.  He showed up at Jacobs Field wearing a Yankees cap while attending an Cleveland Indians playoff game.  In Cleveland.  The Indians were playing the Yankees.  At a Cleveland Browns home game, he playfully tossed the ball on the sidelines with the quarterback.  Of Dallas.  The team the Browns were about to play.  Classy stuff.

When you view childish, disrespectful antics like this, you can certainly understand Jen's point. Yet I strongly disagreed with my dear sister about my city's devotion to it's teams and players therein.  Go to ClevelandBrowns.com and click on the "Community"  tab to see all the ways the Browns organization is involved in the city and it's surrounding suburbs.  The players and coaches have built playgrounds, read to children in the Cuyahoga County Library, fed the homeless in soup kitchens, and built homes for Habitat for Humanity.  They sponsor youth football camps and provide "Family Day" at training camp.  I know all other NFL teams have done the same.

Then there are some true classy players.  Talk to Josh Cribbs, Browns star kick-off returner and graduate of nearby Kent State University.  Ask him how much he loves the city of Cleveland and it's people, but make sure you've alloted plenty of time for his response (Josh tends to gush!).

There's former quarterback and hometown hero Bernie Kosar, who nearly brought the Browns to the Superbowl back in the 80's.  He's on the Browns staff now, and commentates the preseason games for the local TV station.  There's not enough space on this blog to list all the charities Bernie has founded to aid the people and children of the city he loves.  No spoiled brats here.

But there was something else I wish I had mentioned to Jen when we were debating that morning.  Ironically, we were doing so in the nursing home room where my father lay, sleeping peacefully in his bed in the corner. I wish I had pointed to my weak, slumbering father and told Jen the story about a preseason game that Dad and I attended several years back.  My first husband had just left me a few months earlier, and I was in the process of putting my life back together, one piece at a time.  Dad was never a great consoler, but I was back home for a few days, so he suggested we head downtown and try to scalp a couple of tickets to watch Bernie and the Browns take on Kansas City.

Dad was a FIERCE negotiator, and after talking some poor sap down to a few bucks per ticket, we took our seats in the old stadium and prepared for some Browns football.  Because Dad both played and coached football, he is extremely knowledgeable about the game, often telling which plays would be called before they were even set to snap the ball.  We watched Kosar (Dad was a big fan), and he made predictions about the upcoming season, how he thought our struggling team would do.  It was a great night.  All my worries about my marriage, my financial situation, and my future faded away as I sat there sipping a Pepsi with Dad, watching our beloved team and dreaming about the season ahead.

The Browns won that game.  And the next morning, a rerun of the game was shown on the local television station.  Dad and I took a seat on the couch and watched it together AGAIN, saying things like, "Oh, here comes that play where he faked right, then hit the receiver in the end zone!"  We cheered just as loud the second time through.

Yes, we probably place far too much emphasis on sports in this country. And the people of Cleveland should probably get over the despicable shunning of their once glorious "King James."  But for THIS Cleveland fan, rooting for my team and admiring it's players goes far, far deeper than buying a jersey that supports a millionaire's salary.  These players and this team represent my city, and the people who live there.  People who get together and cheer for them, year after heartbreaking year, simply because they're "our team."

And most importantly, they have provided the only thing over which my Dad and I have deeply, sincerely bonded.  And THAT, my dear sports fans, is priceless.  Or as Dad would say, "not too shabby."

Thanks for Reading!!

Oh, Barry!

Those of you who've been with me for a while may remember my shameful admission several posts ago.  That's when I revealed my tremendous love for Barry Manilow back when I was in high school.  I know, I know!

In my defense, I don't think it was any "Tiger Beat Puppy Love" kind of thing. It's that his sappy, unrequited love songs were just prime stuff for a young girl pining over her first loves.  I mean, if you were sixteen back in the late seventies and your boyfriend just broke up with you, TELL me you wouldn't have listened to "Looks Like We Made It" ninety-seven times in a row!  I DARE you!!

Seriously, though, although I rarely listen to Barry's songs today, I have to admit the man is a tremendously talented musician.  He also has a wonderful self-deprecating sense of humor that makes me giggle.  We all need not take ourselves too seriously!!

So, in a bit of a nostalgic mood, I've chosen this clip of one of my favorite Manilow tunes, "Somewhere Down the Road." Although I wish he were playing the piano himself, I love how the orchestra sits behind him, silent, while the only accompaniment is heard from offstage.  I also love the fact that his voice is a bit hoarse, not sure why.

This song came out shortly before I graduated.  That was the time that my husband, Alan, and I, high school sweethearts, had decided to go our separate ways.  Those of you who are familiar with our story know that we reunited and married some ten years later.  I think that's why I have a particular fondness for this song, and the line, "We had the right love at the wrong time..."

It's not a really long clip.  C'mon, take a look back with me.  I won't tell...

The Only Necessary Word

Captain Tony Tarracino is a legend in Key West. Born in 1916 in Elizabeth, New Jersey, he fled to Key West as a young man, barely surviving a severe beating provided by some Mafia thugs pursuing him after discovering his gambling scam. To say The Captain lived a colorful life would be the same as stating that the surface of the sun is a little warm.

Throughout his 92 years on this earth, Tony worked on a shrimp boat, captained his own fishing charter boat named The Greyhound, and served as a gunrunner during the Cuban revolution.  He owned and ran one of Key West's most popular bars, Captain Tony's Saloon, and it was there he gave a young guitar player his first break.  The kid had just bombed out in Nashville, and had come to Key West to try and become a bar musician.

Tony liked the kid and, although he already employed a featured band, offered to let him play during the musicians' ten minute breaks, for ten dollars and three Budweisers per night.  That kid, Jimmy Buffett, accepted, and the two became great, life-long friends.  Buffett's ballad, The Last Mango in Paris, is a tribute to his friend and first boss. When Captain Tony ran for Mayor of Key West one year, Buffet served as his campaign manager. He won.

But all his other outlandish accomplishments aside, Captain Tony seems best known for his philandering with the opposite sex.  If prompted, he would proudly tell you of his thirteen children, born to eight different women. Even in his final days, he kept court on a barstool at Captain Tony's Saloon, posing for pictures with the tourists, signing body parts of buxom women who smiled and giggled when he gave their ample rear ends a flirtatious squeeze as they turned to leave.  In his golden years, he talked of how much he loved the scent of women, and how much he enjoyed the feel of their soft skin.

Alan and I were actually enjoying a beer at Captain Tony's Saloon a few years back when The Legend appeared and took his seat on his bar stool throne.  Immediately, a crowd gathered and a line of autograph seekers and picture posers formed in front of him.  I had heard a little of Mr. Tarracino, and I turned to catch a glimpse of the Old Salt, but I honestly had no desire to meet the man.  As a first-hand victim of an adulterous ex-husband, I don't have much patience for those who proudly boast of their infidelities, legend or not.

But when we were visiting Key West once again last week on vacation, a title emerged as I perused a shelf at the local bookstore:  Life Lessons of a Legend.  It was a book written about Captain Tony, by an Iowa School Superintendent and Parrothead, Brad Manard.  Brad met Tony one night as he visited his saloon on vacation, and asked if he could write his story.  He spent a week dining and interviewing the man, getting his incredible life lessons down for all eternity.

I read the entire book on my flight home, and I have to say, I was too quick to judge Tony Tarracino.  Because despite his questionable decisions regarding women and an arguably nasty gambling habit, I found myself genuinely liking the man.

Tony had a word that drove him through life:  Compassion.  He said it was the only word in the dictionary worth anything, and all the other words "should be thrown out." Compassion was the only necessary word.  Tony showed it in the way he treated people.  He loved people (not just the women), particularly when he served as mayor of Key West during the early 90's.  He said he felt like the father of 28,000 people, and he treated the citizens who elected him as his children.  The local merchants say that it wasn't just that Tony loved Key West so much, it was that he loved the PEOPLE who resided there even more.  He was a wealthy businessman at the time, but he fought tooth and nail to protect the "little guy" from the big business moguls who threatened to take over the island, pushing everyone else out.

He was a chronic over-tipper and knew most of the homeless by name.  He helped them as best he could, never judging their situation or questioning their downfall.  His friends say that he felt so lucky to have the privilege to give to those down on their luck, and he did so with a happy, loving, compassionate heart.  He talked incessantly about finding "the jewel" in others.  He contested that even the most ornery old cuss had a kind, tender spot, way down deep somewhere.  He believed that if you looked hard enough, you could find it in everyone.  He always had a kind word for everybody he met.

I wish I had left my Coors Light on the table that day and strolled over to Captain Tony's barstool.  I'd have shook his hand and thanked him for reminding me to be slow to judge (even when it came to philandering old men), to search for the good in people, and to practice compassion above all else.

Captain Tony died on November 1, 2008, surrounded by loved ones and family.  The entire island of Key West cried that night for their lost legend and father.  Then, they lifted their tropical drinks in a toast to him, and promised to carry on the lessons he'd spent a life learning.  I've decided I will, too.

Thanks for Reading!!

Singing for the Smile

My Dad was the first of his generation in his large family to graduate from college.  He worked the night shift at the steel mill, spent a few summers as a garbage man, but he paid his own way and graduated with a degree in education from Kent State University. Education was really important to Dad.

He wanted to make sure each of his kids had the opportunity to attend college as well, and did everything he could to encourage us.

For me, this involved visiting three schools in particular: Ohio State (Dad is an ENORMOUS Buckeye fan and tried his best to sway me in that direction!), Syracuse University, and Cincinnati Conservatory of Music.  The latter two required not only to be accepted academically, but also to pass a singing/dancing audition before being considered for their Musical Theater departments.   Dad freed the time from his ridiculously busy teaching/coaching/refereeing schedule to drive Mom and I to both schools the summer before my senior year.

I really liked Syracuse from the moment I arrived on campus.  The theater professors were welcoming and genuinely nice.  Each potential student was called individually into a small mirrored room to sing our selections and perform a short dance routine to a small panel of teachers, smiling behind a table.  I left feeling good about my audition and hopeful for some positive results.

Then came the trip to Cincinnati.  The CCM campus was quite large, the staff a bit stiff and unsmiling. Immediately upon arriving, approximately 30 of us auditioners and our parents were corralled into a large room and told to sit in the uncomfortable plastic chairs that faced the front, where a giant piano sat.  Just in front of the piano was a long table, where there were seated several music/drama/dance professors, all sporting unfriendly scowls.  The auditioners were asked to take seats in the chairs nearest the front, the parents were to remain in the back.

An older, white-bearded man arose from the table, mumbled a few words of greeting in a forced british accent, then called the first boy's name to begin his vocal audition.  The boy arose, gave his music to the accompanist at the ginormous piano, then nervously took his place on the "X" marked on the floor as instructed by Mumbles.  He began his number, revealing a lovely tenor voice, and as his fear seemed to subside a bit, a delightful personality emerged.  The kid was really nailing it!  Nailing it, that is, until Mumbles held up a hand and yelled, "STOP!"  The boy, mortified and shocked, stopped mid-note, and looked down at his accuser with worried eyes.

Then this pompous old bearded jerk proceeded to tell this sweet boy all of the ways that he had failed with this particular piece.  He gave him fierce criticism that was far from constructive, then told him to start again. Shocked and shaking, the boy began again.  But it was hopeless. Fear had returned to stay, and the man finally cut him off once again with a "Thank you.  That is all."  Defeated, the boy exited and sat down.  His face was so red it permeated to the tips of his earlobes.

I watched as, one by one, this man berated each young applicant, always with a great deal of mock exasperation and stinging words. Every once in a while, he'd decide he liked someone, and would let them finish their number.  This, however, was rarely the case.

Looking back, I'm pretty shocked at my reaction to all of this.  I didn't crumble in fear.  I think I was pretty sure by then that I didn't want to attend this school, with this group of hostile teachers.  I already knew I wanted to go to Syracuse, if they chose me.  So, I honestly had no anxiety.  None at all.  I liked my prepared song, "Cockeyed Optimist" from South Pacific.  It had an easy range, and gave me a chance to show a little personality. And besides, there was a full audience of parents out there for which to perform!  I decided to focus on that and forget about the pompous jerk who would most certainly be cutting me off!!

When my name was called, I handed my music to the accompanist and walked calmly to my mark.  I smiled at the crowd, and nodded for her to begin. As my intro was playing, I looked up and spotted my Dad, standing, in the back of the room.  He stood out, not only because all the other parents were sitting in chairs. Dad stood in the back, arms crossed, leaning against the wall, with a look of intense FEAR on his face.  He was terrified!

I flashed him a quick smile before beginning my number.  It was the best I could do.  I was proud of it.  Mumbles DID, in fact, stop me, about three quarters of the way through my song.  He gave me a few notes, then asked me to begin again.  I did. This time he let me finish.  I was satisfied with that. But as I turned to walk off, I glanced back at Dad.  He was still standing, arms crossed, leaning against the wall.  But on his face was the biggest, warmest, proudest smile I'd ever seen.  I put it there.  Dad was proud.  Really, really proud.  Can I tell you how amazing that felt?

I didn't get accepted at CCM.  I did go to Syracuse University, where I performed in many shows, as well as some after graduation.  Dad attended almost all of them.  He always offered a big hug and a "nice job!" after each one, always telling me he was proud of me.  But none of those reactions were as wonderful as that day in Cincinnati.  That's the day when I not only calmed my Dad's fears, but I made him believe in me.

Thanks for Reading!!

That's an Irish Lullaby

My dear blogger friends, I write today with a bit of a heavy heart.  I've just returned from a few days spent with my siblings, as we placed Dad in a nursing home back in our home state of Ohio.  He was living a contended life of retirement with our Mom in Winter Haven, Florida, when he suffered a stroke on Christmas Eve, from which he has has never recovered.

The truth is, these may be my father's last days.  The vibrant athlete, carpenter, coach, and teacher who worked his ass off to provide for his large family is now finding it difficult to sit up in bed.  He's not in pain, and he appears to be in good spirits.  Dad just appears to be slowly fading away.

I've decided I'm not yet ready to write about my own heartache over the whole situation, nor the surreal reality my brother, sisters, mother, and I are now forced to accept.  Maybe another day.

Instead, I'd like to share this lovely Irish lullaby, sung by Bing Crosby, from the movie Going My Way.  I believe it was the first song we kids learned.  Dad taught it to us.  Will you indulge me?